In
by Clovache
Summary: On nights like this, Bruce Wayne could constantly be caught questioning himself. Bruce/Joker, one-shot. M/M


On nights like this, Bruce Wayne could constantly be caught questioning himself. Given the position he was in, however, activities like questioning, analyzing and reasoning were not only imprudent- they were detrimental to his health.

Instead, Bruce should be focusing on how to breathe.

In and

Out.

In

and out.

Bruce shouldn't be questioning how it came to this. Not while he's fucking the Joker.

"_Batsy, ohh..._**_Bats_**_..._"

Joker had the oddest way of rasping Bruce's alias and making it sound better than his given name. Hearing the slighter man moan like that, his name, his fears, never failed to send a shock of arousal straight in between Bruce's legs. Weak to that voice, he threw himself unwittingly at the Joker's feet- all but begging for a taste of the chaos the other man reigned, for the all-consuming flames to lick him up and keep him. (Of course, these reactions to the green haired maverick were kept under cowl, lock and key- and the Joker knew nothing of them.)

Only a man, Bruce was all too easily tempted by the Joker's sly grins and careless cackling. The freedom he offered had more than once wrapped its crooked and bloodstained fingers around Bruce's heart and squeezed, pushing out all thoughts of a do-good vigilante and leaving nothing behind but a crushed red mass of pulp driven by an almost bestial instinct to survive.

Yes, Bruce Wayne was a man. A human first, his father's son and vigilante second. A human with urges and wants. A human that hid inside of the Batman-

_"Ahhn, ohh...! There's no cure...for your illness, Bats-!_

-who alone had the strength to carry out those perverse wants.

The Joker would pant and cajole and scream to the high heavens when they fucked and it was raw and hard, how the Joker liked, and Batman, too.

Bats and Bruce.

Bruce was sure, absolutely pos-i-tive, that Joker could never know of the connection that existed between the two names, the two people. There was no way that it wouldn't intrude on the dynamics of their all ready precarious 'relationship'. The Joker was, at Bruce's guess, under the impression that Batman was only that and just that- Batman. And whether those delusions were self-inflicted or a result of some form of psychosis, Bruce was hesitant to disengage them. While the Joker thought he was incorruptible, immovable, he kept coming back to try and work his chaotic magic through the crack of Batman's kevlar. What he either didn't know or chose to ignore was that underneath that heavy armor, there was a man. There was a man with slicked back hair and the eye's of a charmer, a man with scars he couldn't explain in most company.

There was a man who had fallen from grace. A man who would wield Batman as a prodding stick to goad the Joker, a man who was very, ve-he-ry susceptible to the emotions that couldn't move the Batman. A rich man. A selfish man.

There was a Bruce Wayne hiding under the armor plates that made up the Bat-

"Th-there's- _aahhn!_" The Joker would throw his head, green curls tossing, and shriek when Batman hit him right. There! There, yes!

-man. The Joker would never, could never, know that the Batman felt anything but rage, determination, and a desire to protect Gotham. Sure, he was fucking the Joker. He often did.

But any of the reasons that he could possibly have for fucking the clown could be traced back to the aforementioned three emotions. As long as he engaged in coitus with the joker as Batman and only Batman, he was safe. The kevlar never came off, the cowl never moved from it's spot. The scowl never softened and no matter how badly Bruce ached to cry out with climax, he never did. It simply wasn't something the Batman would do.

And once again, Bruce was hurtled back to face the all-encompassing thought that more than often plagued his mind: how did it come to this? How did he fall from the heights of Gotham's towers to its underbelly, slumming it up in the Narrows with the infamous homicidal clown as his occasional fuck-buddy?

That, at least, was a mistake that he could blame on Bruce rather than Batman. Batman couldn't fall in love- but Bruce could. He tried too hard to see the virtue in the Joker, to give himself a good reason for letting him live time after time, for not dashing him on the concrete like an egg dropped from a forty story building after he killed Rachel.

Especially after he killed Rachel.

He tried too hard to see the man in the murderer and fell in key with the man's thoughts and the way he lived his life. Upon leaning too close to dig what must be a human out of the chaos-wrecked comedian, Bruce was pulled down down down into the flame of chaos that the Joker seemed to thrive on. Those flames that bolstered the clown, that gave him a reason to be burnt Bruce down. Stripped of his raison d'tete, he fell right here. Into the Narrows. Into bed with the Joker.

"Come _on_ Batsy! Come on, _Come on_, harder, yes,_ yes, there, _**_Batman_**_! Yes!_"

It never surprised Bruce that the Joker was vocal, just like-

_-it never surprised the Joker that Batman never removed his armor, never smiled, rarely kissed, only really grunted and never cried his name-_

-he wished he could be. Batman simply wasn't vocal. Bruce Wayne might have been, but not the Bat, oh no.

He would come inside of the Joker, typically after the clown spent himself. He would pull out, tuck himself into his armor and if the Joker wasn't wearing his ghastly war paint, he's stop for half a second to notice the pink but still silvery scars that roped across his cheeks. When he was all made-up, Batman would wonder how he'd fallen so far.

Because, Batman hated the Joker.

But Bruce Wayne loved him.


End file.
